Slowly Shattering
by SwitchbladesInMyHeart
Summary: "...even in his hung-over haze he knows that assaulting his boss will get him fired, and then he will truly be royally screwed- again, he laughs bitterly, because isn't he already?" Steve Randle never thought there would come a day when he was too broken down to get back up. Rated "T" for language. One-shot.


He sits completely still, letting the words wash over him, envelop him, take root in his being. He is vaguely aware of someone else's shaking hand covering his, squeezing it in an attempt to provide the comfort that nothing can offer. And yet he clings to it, the hand, whose he thinks might be Evie's, desperate for some sort of anchor, some proof that the world is still spinning.

* * *

In the week that follows, he isn't sure where to go.

The first night, he stays at his parents' house. He can't call it home, because it's nothing but empty beer bottles and drunken arguments and his mother's hysteria- whenever she's there, which isn't often these days- but it's a place to sleep and there's no shortage of alcohol.

He comes in late, well after two a.m., and heads immediately for the refrigerator.

_He'll know you took some_, a voice in the back of his head rationalizes, but it has been diminished by the time he reaches the bottom of the first bottle, and silenced altogether as he finishes off the third.

* * *

The next morning, he wakes on the couch, a half-empty bottle beside him and with a terrific headache. When his father bursts into the living room, screaming and swearing about everything under the sun, Steve thinks he's going to lose it.

"You!" his old man hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at the discarded bottle. "You show up in the middle of the night and think it's okay to steal what belongs to me, just because your little friend went and got himself-"

He never finishes the thought, because before he can so much as blink, his jaw has been shattered by his own son and he falls to the floor.

"Don't you _ever_ fucking talk about him," Steve says with deadly finality, and then he's gone, with no intention of coming back.

* * *

He has already changed into his coveralls and positioned himself beneath a leaking Ford by the time his boss realizes he's there.

Steve slides out from underneath the car, face already streaked with grease, and looks into the confused eyes of a balding man in his late forties who maybe once had dreams and who maybe once wanted nothing more than to get out of this god-forsaken town and who maybe still does, but who has been beaten down by life and reduced to running a gasoline station. Steve looks at him and wonders if his own story is destined to end the same way, but then he laughs bitterly because he doesn't believe in destiny and the future is something he doesn't have the strength to contemplate.

"Son, you don't work today," says Mr. Meyers, and Steve simply shrugs indifferently.

"Look, I'm as sorry as you are about what happened..." Meyers tries again, and Steve clenches the wrench in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He slides back under the vehicle, concentrating every fiber of his being on not beating the shit out of Meyers, because even in his hung-over haze he knows that assaulting his boss will get him fired, and then he will truly be royally screwed- again, he laughs bitterly, because isn't he already?

_Son of a bitch_, he thinks to himself, and has to refrain from speaking the words aloud. _'Sorry as you are' my ass. You're just sorry you lost an employee_. But then, because his thoughts are straying into dangerous territory, he refocuses his energy on fixing the leak on the car, listening as Meyers's footsteps fade away.

* * *

It's after nine o' clock when he is finally shooed out of the DX, with orders to "go home and get some rest." Steve can hardly retain his laughter at this- the place he considered home had been eradicated and sleep would come just as soon as hell froze over. But he leaves anyway, though he hasn't the slightest clue where to go.

_Somewhere with booze_, he thinks, and the thought is immediately followed by, _Two-Bit_.

So for the next three or four or maybe five days- he doesn't bother to keep track- he lays over either at Two-Bit's place or at Evie's, switching from one to the other when he can no longer take the inquiries of a younger sister or the tears of a girlfriend who means well but does an excellent job of reminding Steve of the very _thing _he is trying so diligently to erase from his mind, and better yet, from his life.

* * *

A week or so after... _it_ happened, he finds himself trapped in yet another irritating argument with Meyers.

"You need to take time to grieve," says the man, the sweat gleaming on his forehead serving as an indicator that he is clearly uncomfortable discussing such personal matters.

_Then don't_, Steve thinks.

"Go home," says Meyers for the second time, and again Steve thinks, _Home doesn't exist anymore_.

"I don't want to have to ban you from the workplace," Meyers says firmly, "but I will if I think that's what's best for you." This time, Steve can't control his emotions.

"What the hell do you know about what's best for me?" he shouts, angrily throwing down the towel he had been holding. "What makes you think I need _time to grieve_?" He accentuates his boss's words with a sneer.

Meyers, maddeningly calm, smiles sadly, weakly, pityingly, and Steve nearly strangles him, his patience with the man having evaporated.

"Why don't you go visit his family?" Meyers suggests, and Steve is inflamed, because he wants nothing more than to be with them, but he doesn't want to see them cry and he doesn't want to run the risk of crying himself.

"He lived with his brothers, didn't he?"

_Lived._

Every last inch of Steve's resolve shatters. He feels some sort of dam inside of himself break, and pure, uncensored rage comes tumbling out in torrents.

"Just go fuck yourself, you bastard!" he roars, much the same way he had addressed his father days earlier. "Don't you dare talk about him, about me, as if you know anything about us. Just get out of my way, and get on with your fucked up life, and let me get on with mine." He can't stand to be in the presence of the man any longer, can no longer stomach the air of pity and disapproval, so he turns on his heel and disappears into the night, though a nagging voice in the corner of his mind still whispers, _You did what he wanted. You left._

It was nothing a few bourbons wouldn't fix.

But on the way to Buck's place, where he's decided he's going to stay, he passes a makeshift memorial, overflowing with hand-scrawled sentiments and a dozen different kinds of flowers. As soon as he catches a glimpse of it, he spins around and sprints in the opposite direction, his thirst forgotten. He wants to tear the image from his memory, but it is seared into his mind's eye, and he sees nothing else as he runs blindly towards the place where he knows he will be reassured by _his _presence. The entire thing is a cruel joke, he manages to convince himself, as he runs ever faster, lungs burning not with the pain of running but with a feeling he can't place and doesn't want to acknowledge.

_Idiots_, he thinks of those who brought flowers and offered their condolences. _They've got it all wrong. _The joke would be on them, Steve is sure.

* * *

Before he has time to talk himself out of it, for reason to sink in, he bursts through the door. He is met with three, wide-eyed faces, all broken, all lost.

"Soda?" Steve calls out, panting heavily. "Where are ya, buddy?" A strangled sound of pain echoes around the room, so glaringly empty and dull and lifeless.

"Steve," comes Two-Bit's gentle voice, ever-so-slightly slurred, but measured. "Sit down, buddy."

"You don't have to talk to me like I'm off my rocker," Steve snaps. "Where's Soda?" With each word, each passing second, the need to see his best friend intensifies within his churning stomach until he thinks he might vomit. He tries shouting again, into the gray void that the room has become. "Soda!"

And then a smaller pair of arms are wrapped around Steve, and they are connected to a grief-ridden boy who suddenly seems both younger and older than his fourteen years. It takes several seconds for Steve to begin to decipher the words muddled with his sobs.

"God, it's... it's so unfair," Ponyboy cries, and Steve can feel the inevitable truth rushing towards him like a tsunami. He wants to tell the boy to shut up, that he, just like Meyers and Steve's father and all of the idiots who left flowers, doesn't know what he's talking about, but his throat has closed in upon itself and his lip is beginning to tremble.

"Steve, would you just fucking let yourself cry?" It's the swearing that jolts Steve out of his fantastical musings and shoves him roughly back into the nightmare that his life has become.

"He's gone," Ponyboy whispers.

And just like that, the tsunami hits.

Steve feels the room spin, and everything inside of him is flooded by the unbearable truth. He gasps for breath that he can't seem to reach, lets out an animalistic wail of a type he's never heard from himself. He knows nothing but the anguish of the moment, slamming into him repeatedly as if the universe is determined to crush every last piece of him.

_Damn world_, he shrieks inwardly. _There ain't nothing left of me to break._

He sinks to the floor, his body racked by silent sobs. He feels Ponyboy, whom he's rarely liked but always loved, clinging to him- and amidst his agony he is reminded of what a fool he is, that he will always have a home, however broken- their sobs harmonizing to form a chorus of sorrow. And then Darry and Two-Bit are there, and the pathetic remnants of their once-strong gang are sprawled on the floor in a defeated heap for all the world to see, and all Steve can think is, _Why him? Goddamnit, why him? _And all he can see is the hope of a once-colorful future slipping away into grayness, and all he can picture is a worthless, shadowy world.

And for the first time in his life, Steve Randle cannot bring himself to carry on.

* * *

_"I am deeply sorry to inform you that Sodapop Curtis has passed away. He appears to have died on impact. We- we did everything that we could."_

* * *

**Reviews would really be nice.**

**Stay gold.**


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